For the mourning
Don’t think today.
Feel the hit to the chest,
the skipping breath.
Inescapable death.
Don’t think.
Give it a name,
the squeeze, the strain,
that one pulsing fear
that’s tender, here.
Don’t think.
The thoughts, they lie—
the wandering eye,
the let-down, the high,
that disappointed sigh,
don’t think.
The truth, it lies
in the belly, in thighs.
Take cues from the spine.
In time you’ll be fine.
I think.
—Sarah Avenir
Sarah is a writer, reader, and aspiring hermit; she’s @sarahavenir on Twitter, and you can find more at sarahavenir.com.
A Little Bag
I have a little bag I carry
A small wristlet that never will swing in the breeze
Instead it’s cradled in the depths of my satchel
Whichever larger one I carry
In it there is a small compact of powder and a sponge
A mirror
Eye drops
Pale lip gloss
The bag was a gift from a coworker
The bag maker is too pricey for my taste
The bag itself is burnt orange
My coworker left in a burnt haze
While I stayed
The bag is filled with powder to hide a red nose
Eye drops to hide evidence of tears shed
Lip gloss to hide the flush of sorrow
I stayed and hid my burning
Inside a little bag.
—Nancy Peterson
Rose Colored Past
I think of Death by a Thousand
Tiny Cuts as salt, vinegar, and the sands of
time drip out from my cracked skin,
running through my hands
onto the tops of my thighs.
But I don’t even regret every moment
at this hour. It wasn’t all bad; just frustrating.
Moving forward these days brings beloved relief,
but it’s hard not to hate that it’s okay to go,
without you,
like you did first.
I’ve handpicked my own destiny after
you picked me last. I waited for it.
I served you actively, gifting my patience,
but at the price of time filled shallow with quality,
which left my tongue dry and parched,
and my skin starved of touch
those last handful of months.
—Sissy Miller
Chance and Choice
In every now a choice is made. So many nows I have slept walked through. Now I understand that I need not wait for circumstance to express a kindness. With every now a chance — a choice to set the world a right.
PROUD OF YOU
We are SO proud of you.
Look, I know we’ve had our differences over the years,
and I don’t know the details of all the things you’ve gone through…
but… I can see how strong you are. And I’m sorry I don’t always show it, but… I do see it.
You’re amazing!
And I really mean what I said.
We’re just so proud of you.
—Sara Quinn
COPACETIC ROMANCES
I awaited for the time to be w/you
Expecting to stand trial nothing, northern crimes.
None not yet to be, ever repeated
Allowing your bubbling emotional wreaths to rage forward
& falter at the surface
As I, still lie writhing, writing within its ruins & rubble
O mutilating of lyrical trust, boundless!
O carcasses of bloodletting posies!
....again like the changing of the guards by monolithic candlelight, despairing, as to be expected.
Nonetheless fermenting within itself, these emotionless hierarchies.
I forbid the love ravished sanctity by winds of romancing agonies & hopeless change
to so even to attempting to deter our path
A pathway to the amorous beatings, similar to the ringing ballasts, surging ventricular songs in our defined hearts
Beating....
Pounding....
Pulsating....
Poetry...
Bleeding in familiarized unison
O but of the new 4 chambers of my hearts troubles
Decorated w/splintering flowers of spring!
& sages of summer’s supernatural howling breezes
Bouquets of belladonna & wolfsbane
I do not wish to exist w/out you..
But I do embrace embroidered thoughts not to deviate from our path
No matter the storm
or where the blossoming winds exchange their grievances
in my wordy stitches
& their fragrant burnt kisses
& their treasonous ways of love
by lost bee sting memories
& the moons last caress
I come to you an abomination
I left you in devastation
I returned to you for absolution
Allow me to leave a mark, where the scars don't hurt
Upon beautiful plumes of deformed angel nymphs & conjoined witch's shadows
& beautifully placed organs, words & lost synapses hanging in wilted skies of phantoms reverberating reverie splayed out
& tethered to my firm grip of my amputated writing hand & impassioned library of musky libido...
—Richard J Balog
